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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27672809">If There's Anything You Want</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/facewithoutheart/pseuds/facewithoutheart'>facewithoutheart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Inspired by lyrics [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, M/M, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Song Lyrics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:49:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,583</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27672809</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/facewithoutheart/pseuds/facewithoutheart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz and Simon accidentally meet up at a bar for the first time two years after breaking up on that beach in California.</p><p>Inspired by one of my favorite songs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Inspired by lyrics [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038526</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>If There's Anything You Want</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>"If there’s anything you want,</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Come on back ‘cause it’s all still here. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I’ll be in the back room drinking my half of the beer.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never thought I’d see the great Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch sitting alone in a dive, drinking a cider,” He says, sidling on to the bar stool next to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sneer, because old habits die hard, “Well, it is a Tuesday after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking over, I catch him giving me a curious stare. Of course. Why would Simon Snow remember the small detail that he unceremoniously dumped me on a Tuesday?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We sit in silence for a while. Him, probably waiting for me to continue with the logical flow of conversation. Me, waiting for him to realize his mistake and walk the fuck away from me. That’s what he’s good at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I break first, because, after two years, I’m still the weak one. “Are you going to order something or just sit there like a numpty?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, smile lines crinkling. This small detail of time’s passage makes and breaks my heart. Simon Snow still </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiles</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Simon Snow smiles </span>
  <em>
    <span>without me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you believe I left my wallet at home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I would, you complete disaster,” I roll my eyes, but I can’t help one corner of my lip from turning up. It’s comforting to know some things never change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” I say, sliding my pint between us. “You can share mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t plan on drinking it, anyways. I can’t stand the stuff. I just like to smell it. And remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a thirsty gulp, and I watch his swallow, like old times. I hate it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, how’ve you been?” He asks, like we’re old co-workers. Like our history means nothing to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glare, and decide, you know, fuck his olive branch. “Why are you here, Simon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like, in this bar?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” I say, putting every ounce of vitriol I can spare into the word (and, trust me, I have a bounty stored). “Why are you sitting next to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs, letting the two years of anger I’ve bottled hiss out of me like a pricked balloon. “Thought it would be rude not to say, ‘Hello.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You thought it would be rude?” I laugh. “Oh, now you’re concerned about being rude. What did you think dumping me on a beach in California before a transatlantic flight was, if not <em>rude</em>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, he takes another sip of my cider. “I did that for you, Baz. You know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look down at my hands in front of me. “I really don’t.” My voice comes out so small, I don’t think he hears it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s the sound of glass scraping over wood, its smooth edges catching on the small bits of pretzel crumbs stuck to the bar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” He clears his throat. “Here’s your half, anyways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hear his bar stool slide back. His shoes hit the ground. There’s a pause, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was good seeing you, Baz.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he leaves the half empty pint and the completely empty Pitch behind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>"And if you and me is so right,</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Why’s it the same thing every night?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>It’s just a matter of time; it’s almost measurable.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Imagination ain’t kind on us tonight.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The following Tuesday, I’m back in my usual spot, full cider ready to be simultaneously smelled and ignored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, is this, like, a regular habit for you?” He asks, taking the seat next to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Old habits die hard,” I reply, my voice devoid of anything. He makes me feel deflated, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel full again. “Seems like you’ve picked one back up from fifth year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t want to look him directly in the face, so I settle for reading his reaction in a mirror hung above the bar counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He runs his hand through his curls. Apparently, he still hasn’t learned proper curl care. “I didn’t think you’d be here again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, “Then why are you here, Simon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a voice meant only for vampire ears, he says, “Because I’d hoped you would be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know what to do with that sentence. I don’t know what to do with the hope it gives me. I don’t know what to do with any of this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I slide my cider over to him. “Here. We can share.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, we sit in silence, until he leaves me again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because, even after all this time, I still won’t leave Simon Snow first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I arrive the next Tuesday, he’s already waiting for me. He’s wearing a light grey sweater that suits his skin tone, and his broad shoulders fill it out deliciously. I think he’s even styled his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I won’t admit that I bought these jeans especially for him. That I’m wearing a button-down that matches his eyes. That I changed four times before coming out tonight. </span>
</p><p>Taking the seat next to him, I notice he’s already ordered himself a pint. And a glass of red wine.</p><p>
  <span>He slides the wine over to me. “I think I’ve figured you out,” He says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” I respond, allowing myself to take a sip of the red wine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” I exhale after my taste. It’s good; a Malbec. My favorite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look over at him. He’s grinning at me, like he’s just solved one of those stupid quests the Mage used to send him on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You like it?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s adequate,” I smirk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile widens. Having lived in the cold of its absence, I’d forgotten how warm his smile was. It makes me frown. Which makes him frown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley, how are we still so bad at this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I face the front of the bar, and take another sip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, how’ve you been?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” I respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just. No.” Sighing. “We’re not doing this, Simon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doing what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The catching up like old friends. It’s beneath me.” <em>It's beneath </em>us, I think. I will myself not to look at him. It’s the only way I’ll stay strong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffs. “It’s beneath you to tell me how you’ve been.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” I sneer. “Look at you, catching on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re unbelievable,” He says. Then, he drains his cider. And walks away.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m glad he’s gone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not. I’ll never be. I finish the wine, and I go home alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I walk to the bar on another Tuesday night, I think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tonight is the night.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For what, I’m not sure. The night he doesn’t show up. The night I give in. Either option fills me with such a sense of dread, it’s a wonder I even made it out the door of my apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I did. I’m nothing if not self-destructive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I open the door, and he’s not there. My heart sinks, and my legs stick to the floor in the entryway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. I am a <em>Pitch</em>. I can do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Forcing my legs to move, I head to my regular seat and order a cider. Because if I’m going to fall on this sword, I’ll do it cleanly or not at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone clears their throat behind me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know I told Simon a million times that I’m not alive. That I’m dead. A cold, unfeeling monster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I swear, I come alive in the space between that small sound and turning around to see him standing there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon Snow, in </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> gray suit. Holding a bouquet of red roses (Crowley, what a cliche) (I love it).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing here, Simon?” I ask. With hope, this time. I actually allow myself to hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You keep calling me Simon.” He says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart threatens to fall. Honestly, why did I expect something heartfelt or even intelligent to fall out of his mouth? It’s my own fault for expecting him to be someone different than he's always been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s your name, what else would I call you?” I sneer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m dying the longer I go without him kissing me. Or killing me. High school never ends, apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just,” He’s got his hand in his coiffed hair, ruining it. I want to yank that hand right out of his hair. And then mess it up myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spit it out, Simon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See?” He exclaims, gesturing at me. “That would have been the perfect opportunity to call me, ‘Snow.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know what he means. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you want,” I say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ll call you whatever you like if it means you’ll stay, I don’t say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs. “I didn’t come here to fight you, Baz.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there it is: my heart on a ledge. Ready to jump. If we’re fighting, there’s still a chance. And if we’re not...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I came here to fight </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My face must look moronic with the mixture of hope, confusion, and terror it’s expressing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he hands me a letter, and he walks away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>"You’re at your best when you’ve got the guns turned 180 degrees. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>And finding out if it adds all up right.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>We go through all the same lines and sell out to appease but go to sleep in a bed of lies.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I’ve made my own more than once or twice.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t even make it 10 feet from the bar before collapsing onto a nearby bench and tearing open the letter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dear Baz,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know I’m shit with speaking, so I’ve decided to try my hand at writing. To see if I can do these thoughts and feelings some justice. Because you deserve that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, full disclosure: Penny helped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every night since that Tuesday in California, I’ve lain awake in bed, convincing myself that letting you go was the best gift I could have given you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Simon you knew then and the Simon I am now are alike in many ways. We still love scones, and swords, and helping people (even at our own expense). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And we are still only good at knowing what is right for us when we’re staring down the barrel of a gun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I stared into your eyes that day on the beach, I knew I couldn’t say the words that were in my heart without falling apart, and taking you down with me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wasn’t in a place to back up those words, those feelings, with actions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t even know how much that was true, until I listened to the flight attendant giving their safety lecture on the flight home. That you have to put the oxygen mask on yourself, before helping others with theirs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For years, I had been doing just that: helping others when I couldn’t breathe. I had to learn to put myself first. Even if it meant breaking your heart. And mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I believed all of this. I convinced myself these words were true for years. They were the sheep I counted to put myself to sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until I saw you again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, I knew that I’d been sleeping in a bed of lies, when I could have been sleeping next to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What a fool I’ve been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But you did always think I was an idiot. Turns out, you were right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I left you, I said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them.” I hate that my actions haven’t shown you who I want to be, who I know in my heart I am. Who, over the past few years, I think I’ve become. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hero who admits he needs help. The hero who lets others help him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hero who loves, despite how scary it all seems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is the Simon I want you to know, if you'll have him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not asking for a second chance. I wouldn’t do that to you. What I’m asking for is a final chance. Because I want you forever, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. And I have hope that you want me too (if you calling me Simon means what I think it means).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hope you want to get to know who I am today, because I want to spend the rest of my life learning who you are and who you’re becoming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I love you, Baz. I always have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If you’re ready, and willing, you know where to find me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yours,<br/>
</span>
  <span>Simon”</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>"And now time is my time, time is my own.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>And I feel so alive yet feel so alone.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>‘Cause you know you’re the one and that that hasn’t changed since you were nineteen and still in school waiting on a light</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>On the corner by Sound Exchange."</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>-Spoon, “Anything You Want”</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m sipping the cider he left behind. Not because I need it. Ok, maybe I need it a little. My foot is tapping so loudly on the bar stool that the bartender gives me a dirty look. I stop, and then I start tapping again only seconds later. The bartender glares, and the cycle continues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve never been this nervous in my life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, I’ve never put myself this far out on a limb before in my life. Not even the time I literally put myself out on a limb to fight that harpy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know Baz is a fast reader, but I have no idea how fast he’ll respond. I have my hopes, of course. I’ve let myself have hope. And every time he was back at the bar, I let that hope grow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, there’s no guarantee he’ll respond tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin and Morgana, what if he doesn’t respond tonight? I did <em>not</em> think that through when I added that poetic “you know where to find me” line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why oh why did I let Penny include that line? "It gives the letter some <em>mystery</em>," She'd said.</span>
</p><p>Fuck mystery, I just want <em>Baz</em>.</p><p>
  <span>And now, I’m spiraling. I’ve almost finished the whole cider, and I’d meant to save half of it. To complete the arc of Baz and my first re-meeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why am I stuck on symbolism here? I should be worried if Baz will even show up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. That’s why I was stuck on the symbolism. It was a distraction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is it possible for a leg to fall off from excessive jiggling?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smell a presence behind me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smell?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn around, and see Baz. My Baz. Holding a plate of sour cherry scones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry it took me so long, I had to call in a--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can finish, I pounce. He drops the scones, and I don’t even care (ok I care a little, but Baz first, scones second). Wrapping my arms around him, I kiss him like my life depends on it. Because it does. My life, my future, my soul; they all depend on a world where I’m kissing Baz, and he’s kissing back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When we finally pull apart, he’s grinning at me like he can’t believe I’m real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Placing his arms on both of my shoulders, he leans in as if to examine my face. “Are you sure it’s really you, Simon? You haven’t been body switched or transformed or anything? Because the Simon </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> knew would never let sour cherry scones fall to the ground without a fight.”</span>
</p><p><span>I smile, and shrug at him. “Can’t you, like, </span><b><em>Five second rule</em></b> <span>them?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes, Baz says, “You’re an absolute nightmare, Simon Snow.” Then, he wraps me back in his arms, and whispers in my ear, “And I want you forever, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he casts </span>
  <b>
    <em>Five second rule</em>
  </b>
  <span> on my scones, and we share another glass of cider.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've never really wanted to write a Post-Wayward Son fic, but "Anything You Want" is one of my favorite songs, and it was fun to incorporate it into a short story. This is my first piece with more feels than sarcasm, so I guess, character growth?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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